


12 Days of Downton

by Ariel_Tempest



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: 12 Days of Christmas Challenge, Anachronisms, Angst, Canon Compliant, Cricket, Fluff, Hopeful Romance, Humor, Multi, Post-Series, Practice Pieces, Pre-Series, Referenced Suicide Attempt, Series Spoilers, WWII, Wodehouse References, doomed romance, short pieces, wwi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 04:33:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 5,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17860373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariel_Tempest/pseuds/Ariel_Tempest
Summary: A collection of short pieces based on Tumblr prompts, originally done for the 12 days of Christmas, 2018.The individual stories are not actually Christmas related.





	1. Jam

**Author's Note:**

> Around the holidays I wanted to get myself writing a little bit each day, so I made myself a prompt list based on The Twelve Days of Christmas and did a story per day. I wrote whatever came to mind, interpreting each prompt in whatever way sparked my interest. Some of these are predictable, others less so. Some are heartwarming, some are utterly depressing. I've read through them all a couple of times, but haven't bothered with betas.
> 
> These are practice pieces, put here for those who are interested in such things. I hope you enjoy them.
> 
> The chapter titles are the prompts used. Also, I got the geese and the swans backwards. My apologies.

“There,” Daisy smiled in satisfaction, wiping her hands on her apron. She looked at the rows of jars on the counter as if they were fine porcelain vases or hand crafted jewelry rather than jams and preserves. “That’s the damson, the gooseberry, the rhubarb, and the marmalade done. Not bad for one day’s work!”

“Not bad indeed,” her father-in-law agreed, looking over the fruits of her labor. “You could stop now and we’d be set through the winter, easy enough.”

“Oh, but I’ve not done the strawberry or the raspberry,” Daisy disagreed, completely unaware that she sounded like Mrs. Patmore fussing. She always sounded like Mrs. Patmore when she fussed, which made Mr. Mason grin. “And I’ve no idea what to do with the blackberries. There just aren’t enough of them to be worth bothering with.” She frowned at the pail of blackberries she’d managed to pick in the woods earlier that week. It had not been a good year and by the time she’d found the opportunity to go picking, the animals had reduced the harvest even further. 

“Pass on the jam and make a pie?” Mr. Mason suggested. “Or try mixing them with something?”

She could make a pie, admittedly. There were barely enough berries for it, and she could bulk it out with something. But something about the second suggestion caught her interest. “Mix them? With what?” She looked over the jams that she’d already made and tried to think of what would work. There were the raspberries, of course, but raspberry jam was her favorite. She didn’t want to muddy it up with blackberries.

Her father-in-law scratched his beard. “Maybe apples? Or pears? 

“In jam?” Daisy’s face scrunched up at the idea. She’d never heard of apple or pear jam, at least not proper jam. Compotes, yes, and syrups and similar things that were like jam, but not quite jam. Then again, if she thought about it, marmalade wasn’t quite a jam either. 

“Why not?” Mr. Mason reasoned. “You add apples to black berry pie and that’s good.”

The idea was sounding less outlandish by the second. “But,” Daisy fidgeted uncomfortably, “What if it’s not the same with jam? What if it doesn’t work?”

Mr. Mason shrugged. “Then it doesn’t work. That’s the worst that can ever happen, really. It doesn’t work and you try again or give it up as a bad job. But you’ll never know if it works or not if you don’t try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually did a little bit of research on the history of various jams for this one. 
> 
> It didn't go well. 
> 
> We'll just assume that no one had made blackberry-pear-butter at that point.


	2. Slow

When she glanced over her shoulder, Thomas wasn’t there. Frowning, Phyllis turned all the way around. He’d been there a second ago, she was certain, near the end of the caravan of servants headed for the church and Lady Mary’s wedding, but still there and part of the group. Now he was gone. Alarm welled in her throat until she found him, stopped a little ways off, leaning against a fence. Her panic subsiding, giving way to a quieter, more persistent concern, she turned and walked back towards him. “Mr. Barrow? Are you alright?”

Thomas looked up and she had the impression she’d startled him, even though his face registered no more expression than a pair of raised eyebrows. A moment later he softened enough to give her a grin and a soft huff of laughter. “Yeah, I’m alright. Just got a bit dizzy there for a moment. You know how it is, when you’ve been ill and laying down for a long time. Can take you awhile to get your sea legs once you’re up and about again.” His smile broadened, down playing the severity of his words, as if he really had just been out with a touch of influenza, but it didn’t reach his eyes. 

She started to reach for his arm, then hesitated. She’d never been quite sure of how to handle him, not since she came to Downton. She could never be certain what counted as support and what was an insult. Cautiously, meeting his eyes, she followed thorough on the gesture, resting her hand against the dark fabric of his best jacket. Smiling as gently as she could manage, she suggested, “You should take it slowly. Come on, I’ll walk with you.”

He paused, looking from her hand to the rest of the staff, now a good distance off. “You stay with me, you’ll likely be late to the wedding,” he protested, albeit very weakly. “Don’t want them to shut the doors on you.”

She pulled at his arm, the pressure as gently persistent as her caring. “If they do, there will be other weddings. At least we’ll miss this one together.”


	3. Headcold

“You’re certain the table was set properly?”

Mrs. Hughes rolled her eyes as she tested the chicken broth. It wanted some salt. “It may surprise you to learn this, Mr. Carson, but Mr. Barrow has set enough tables in his life that he knows what he’s about.”

“But it’s Christmas!” Her husband protested from the bedroom. The effort was enough to send him into a round of coughing.

“As far as the dishes are concerned, Christmas is simply another day,” she assured him, adding the salt and then, as an after thought, a small pinch of pepper. “The china doesn’t know if it’s holding Christmas pudding or shepherd’s pie.” She couldn’t make out the muttered response from her currently indisposed half, but she suspected it was an objection to the very thought of the family’s china holding something as common as shepherd’s pie. “And at any rate, it was only luncheon.”

There was a moan from the other room. “I don’t want to think about dinner. What will they do for wine?”

The complaint earned him another eye roll. “Whatever his Lordship and Mr. Barrow settle on, I suspect! Really, Mr. Carson, you’re not the butler anymore, and Mr. Barrow needs to learn how to manage things on his own. And if you kill yourself by working through every cold that comes along, he’s going to learn sooner rather than later!” She tested the broth again. Satisfied, she fetched a bowl and started to ladle the broth into it. “You’d do better to worry less about the table settings and more about getting well, or you’ll not be there to see the table for the New Year!”


	4. Long Distance

_Dear T.,_

_How I wish I could find a way to bring you with me to Tangiers! It is the ultimate injustice that you can’t see it. I think of you often as I walk through the market place or watch the ships on the shore. There was a storm yesterday and as the clouds cleared, the sky reminded me so perfectly of your eyes._

_The weather is pleasant, as always, although Adams complains that I’m spending too much time in the sun. Still, I ask you, what is the good of a man going someplace sunny if he doesn’t get a bit of a tan? I know you won’t object, although I suspect it will have faded by they time we see each other again. A pity your family doesn’t come into London for the little season. I suspect I’ll be home by then, although hopefully not for too long. Just long enough to check in with Bertie and be back to Tangiers by Christmas._

_(I know you are content with your current position, or as content as you ever can be while someone else rules you, but if you ever feel the need to leave, please do let me know. I will find a way to bring you on board and make an excuse to bring you here.)_

_I keep looking for a little something I can safely send you, but there’s nothing exciting enough that won’t arouse suspicion. I suppose I could send you a parcel of dates. It seems uninspired, but perhaps you’d still like that? There are oils here that I would give anything to smell heated by your skin, however they are quite expensive and guaranteed to raise eyebrows. Also, from what you’ve said, your Mr. Carson would not approve, although I’m not sure whether that’s a point for or against them. Any way we can ruffle feathers, hm?_

_I look forward to seeing you again. Perhaps I’ll find something I can give you in person._

_Best Always,  
P._

Thomas folded the letter and tucked it into the inner pocket of his jacket, then picked up the classified ads again. He wanted to stay in Yorkshire, but if he couldn’t find a place, perhaps he could hold on long enough for Peter to come home. Surely a marquess could afford an under butler, couldn’t he? And while the position would never allow him to travel like Peter wished, perhaps everything could be right for once.


	5. Keepsake

At first he thought he was dreaming. It was a pleasant dream, waking up and seeing his mother at his bedside, even if she was looking rather pale and wet eyed. Even in a dream, the war had to leave some scars.

Then she smiled and reached out to brush the hair off of his forehead and he knew he was awake. He never felt anything in dreams. “George, Darling,” she whispered, the words fighting to get out. “It’s so good…so good to have you home.”

“It’s good to be home,” he replied, reaching up to touch her hand. He was startled when the contact, the warmth of skin on skin, never came. He looked down reflexively to see what what wrong with his arm, remembering the truth a moment before his eyes confirmed it. His arm wasn’t there.

The tears worked their way out of his mother’s eyes and down her cheeks. She clenched her hands in her lap and he realized that she was clutching the small toy dog that she’d sent with him when he’d left for the army.

“It’s alright, Mama,” he smiled at her, forcing his voice to steady and his own eyes to remain dry. There would be time for tears later, time for her to be strong for him. Right now it was his turn to be strong for her. He nodded to the toy. “It brought me home safe. That’s enough.”


	6. Elegant

The footman opened the door and she swung her legs out of the car, her shoes making a soft crunching noise on the gravel as she stood. The servants stood, lined up by the door, like a row of stately statues waiting to greet her. 

She reminded herself to breathe as she looked up at the building before her; at the intricate stone work and the elegant, towering spires; at the sparkling windows (there seemed to be thousands of them); at the flag flying boldly from the highest point. She’d been here before, of course, so many times over the past year that she’d lost count. This time, though, it was different.

This time, it was hers.

She felt a shift in the air as Robert came to stand behind her, could feel him smile as his voice reached her ears, “Welcome to Downton, Lady Grantham.”


	7. Expecting

It wasn’t what he’d expected.

He’d expected home service, sitting in a hospital somewhere in England, patching up the remains of vain glorious idiots like WIlliam who had nothing better to do with their lives than to die for a King and country who didn’t even know they existed. Despite what Bates undoubtedly thought, he’d been under no illusion that it would be a walk in the park. If nothing else, it would involve chamber pots. Really, for all he’d told Doctor Clarkson about ‘bringing men back to life’ to butter him up, he’d expected to be little more than a hall boy again, only this time with a military title and less sleep.

Like the rest of the country, he’d expected it to be over quickly. By Christmas, they’d said. That had been his comfort, when they’d sent him to France. It would be a few months discomfort, probably at a clearing station, not months in the sucking mud listening to the guns and the shelling and the men around him slowly going mad. Not months that became years. 

Now he sits in the dark, sipping tea out of a tin cup and expects that he’ll die out here, eventually, of cold or fever or the Germans. Someone will probably roll him over into a convenient bit of mud and let him sink and no one will think about him ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I made the prompt list, I seriously planned on this to be expectant parent fluff. Then I hit a snag, the whole thing derailed, and this happened instead.
> 
> I kinda feel like I should apologize to someone for that...


	8. Cow

“There’s the woman of the hour!” 

Edith grinned as Laura walked into her office, smiling broadly. 

The editor sat across from her, pulled out her cigarette case, and lit a cigarette. “So,” she asked, her smile turn to a playful, knowing grin. “How was your honeymoon?”

“Delightful,” Edith replied, prim and proper, at least on the surface, although there was an edge of undeniable coyness to the words. “I bought lots of presents for Marigold and postcards for everyone else and Bertie and I made lots of memories. Still, it is good to be home,” she confessed. She then met Laura’s eye and smirked. “And to have the opportunity to go through all of the wedding presents! I have to thank you for the….unique….creamer.”

Laura laughed at that. “It’s ridiculous, I know, but I saw it in a shop window and it was too good to pass up. I figured if nothing else, you could use it for tea parties with Marigold.”

“What? You don’t think Granny would enjoy coming to tea and finding a silver cow creamer on the table?” It was a joke and they both knew it. Edith would die before she showed that particular present to her grandmother.

“Oh, not that one,” Laura scoffed. “Even if she appreciated Wodehouse, I couldn’t afford good silver. That one’s Modern Dutch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Wodehouse novel referenced here was actually published post series making the whole thing anachronism.
> 
> I don't care, it was the only thing I could come up with.
> 
> Seriously, what was I thinking with that prompt?


	9. Ball

Henry took careful aim and lobbed the ball as gently as he could. George, who had started to show signs of fatigue not long ago, swung entirely too early and too low and practically dropped the bat at the end of the swing.

“I’m never going to hit the ball!” the boy complained.

“I used to say that,” Tom, who had been watching from the sidelines, occasionally stepping in to give George tips on his grip and such, chuckled. “Caught me by surprise the first time I actually hit the thing.”

“Perhaps we’d better stop for the day, though. My arm is getting tired.” It was a bit of a lie. Henry could have bowled awhile longer, but George was clearly ready for a break. “We can practice some more in a few days, if the weather holds.”

George flat out dropped the bat on the ground and crossed over to the older men. They might have scolded him to pick it up, but he looked and sounded so dejected that neither of them had the heart. “What if I never do?”

“Well then, maybe you’ll prefer bowling?” Henry suggested while Tom walked over and retrieved the bat. “I’m a much better bowler than I am a batter. What about you, Tom?”

“Never tried,” the other man shook his head. “Matthew taught me to bat and that was that. I can hit and sometimes I can catch, but I’ll never be a champion cricketer, that’s for dead certain.” He laughed. “I have learned to enjoy the game, though.”

“Mr. Molsley bowls and bats,” George informed them, his tone somewhat envious. “We met him the other day when we were out with Nanny and when I told him I was going to learn cricket he told me all about it and gave me lots of advice. He said it’s a pity that he never gets to play for the village. Mr. Barrow agrees with him.”

Henry was somewhat perplexed. Admittedly, he didn’t know much about the politics down stairs, but he’d never gotten the impression that the butler was particularly fond of the footman-turned-teacher. “He does?”

“Yes,” George nodded once. “Mr. Barrows says with Mr. Molsley bowling for the village and him batting for the house, it would be the best cricket match ever!”

“I bet he did,” Tom rolled his eyes, grimacing. “I bet he did.”


	10. Jump

The stick went sailing through the air, propelled by as much strength as a six year old arm could muster. Sybbie and George laughed as Tiaa pounced on it, not needing to actually run much, and came trotting back to drop it at Sybbie’s feet.

“My turn,” George informed his cousin, who relented without argument. Drawing back as far as he could manage, George launched the stick into the air. It did a graceful arc and landed half a foot away from him. Tiaa, who had seen the wind up, was bounding across the lawn in an instant, having completely missed the fact that her quarry was well behind her. The children laughed and called as she sniffed about in confusion, unable to locate her toy. Finally Sybbie picked the stick up and waved it. The motion caught Tiaa’s eye and she came bounding back, jumping up to grab at the stick with her teeth.

“No, Tiaa!” Sybbie reprimanded. “Donk says no jumping!” She lost the battle, and the stick, when George distracted her with a sudden cry.

“Daisy!” Leaving the puppy to play with the stick by herself, George went pelting over to where the assistant cook was crossing the lawn. Of course, she was accompanied by Andrew, but he was of less interest, possibly because he wasn’t carrying a basket. Sybbie went running after him and soon both children were looking up at the young woman with hopeful eyes. “Good day, Daisy! Do you have anything good to eat?”

“And spoil your tea?” Daisy laughed. “Lady Mary would see me sacked, and then she’d turn me over to Nanny!” The children laughed because they knew she wasn’t really afraid of Nanny. Daisy and Andrew laughed at the thought that Nanny was less terrifying than Lady Mary. “I really don’t, though. These are all vegetables, see?” She opened the basket to show them a wealth of carrots and leafy greens. They were clearly disappointed, but neither one fussed.

“Are you teaching Tiaa to catch a stick, then?” Andrew asked, trying to turn the subject to something more heartening. 

“She knows how,” Sybbie informed him. “We were just playing with her. Tiaa! Tiaa, bring the stick here!”

“It’s my turn,” George reminded her, apparently having forgotten, or completely missed, how Tiaa had come to be in possession of the stick. It didn’t matter. Tiaa was too busy having fun running around with the stick in her mouth to bother listening.

Andrew laughed at her antics, but as it became clear that Sybbie was going to get politely cross if the puppy continued to be disobedient, he offered to help. “Here, I’ll get it for you,” he offered. “Here, Tiaa!” he started calling as he headed towards her. Once he got close enough to notice, her tail wagged fiercely and she went bounding away from him. Soon a new game started, one where Andrew would get close, Tiaa would dodge in the other direction, go off a ways, wait for him to get close again, and then take off. By the time he finally caught her, the footman was clearly winded from the effort. The children and Daisy were winded from laughing at his antics. Tiaa didn’t seem winded at all and a brief game of tug-of-war briefly ensued before Andrew regained the stick. The puppy jumped up (ignoring Sybbie’s cry of “No jumping!”) and, as much to save his starched white shirt front as for fun, Andrew chucked the stick away from him as hard as he could.

The stick went sailing through the air, propelled by as much strength as a nineteen year old arm could muster. It flew past the edge of the lawn, over the nearby bank and, to the collective horror or the onlookers, landed in the creek with a barely audible splash.

The human onlookers, at least, were horrified. Tiaa, on the other hand, continued tearing across the grass, tongue out and tail wagging.

“Oh good Lord,” Andrew whimpered then cried, “Tiaa! No! Stop!”

It was a wasted effort. The puppy leapt over the bank, sailed through the air, and landed with a much louder splash. Those left on the bank went running over, the children calling her name in utter distress. Andrew had the lead, having been closer to the bank, but Sybbie called after him, “You have to save her!”

While the thought of getting his livery drenched didn’t hold much appeal, neither did the thought of telling Lord Grantham that his puppy had drowned. When he got to the river bank, however, it turned out not to be a concern. Either through instinct or previous, unknown practice, Tiaa was perfectly able to navigate the relatively slow, shallow water of the creek and, having retrieved her stick, was cheerfully paddling back toward him. Andrew sighed. “She’s all right!” he called back. By the time the rest of the group had caught up with him, Tiaa had reached the bank and clambered out, a mess of water and mud. A vigorous shaking transferred a fair amount of the water and mud to George and Sybbie who had rushed forward to make sure she wasn’t injured in any way.

Andrew looked on in despair. “Well, that’s me sacked.”

Daisy glanced up at him. “Oh come on now. I haven’t been sacked yet, you’ve nothing to worry about.”


	11. Breathe

The world was reduced to the needle, moving in and out of abused skin, drawing nowhere near enough blood, and the barely-there sound of breathing. Doctor Clarkson stitched as quickly as he could, as neat and precise as any valet or Lady’s maid repairing a torn coat sleeve. He tried not to look up and see the too pale face lying on the pillows. Time was the most valuable commodity he had right now, and he dare not waste it.

He’d been surprised when Anna’s call had come, of course. No one ever truly sees these things coming. He was at a loss to know how Miss Baxter had caught on. Yes, he had been surprised, but not shocked, as the rest of the household seemed to be. Instead the surprise had spiraled into a sickening sense of inevitability. It was the same feeling as when he realized a cancer had spread to a patient’s vital organs or that even the most modern of treatments wasn’t working. 

The feeling that no matter what he did, no matter how he fought, he was fighting against something too big for him to defeat.

He finished the first wrist and stood, crossing around to the other side of the bed, pausing only to listen and assure himself that there was still a fight to be fought here. Thankfully Thomas had always been a fighter, even if that had proven more of a problem for those around him than not. But it was undoubtedly as much a part of why he persisted in drawing air despite his own, willful attempt at self destruction as Miss Baxter’s timely intervention. He untied the neat knot she had made in the strip of ripped fabric and tried not to let the fear that Thomas would change his mind, that his fighting spirit would give up, completely choke him. 

He wasn’t good to anyone if he stopped breathing himself. 

Setting aside the makeshift bandage, he started in with the needle again. He wondered, trying to distract himself just enough to stay calm, if Miss Baxter had any medical experience. Even if she hadn’t been a nurse proper, there were plenty of women who had volunteered at the hospitals and convalescence homes. At any rate, she seemed to know exactly how to tie a bandage. He wished he’d had more time to speak with her, in the past. She wouldn’t be able to volunteer at the hospital, of course, not with her career, but it would have been nice to know there was someone here who could help in an emergency. It had been that way when Lord Grantham’s ulcer had burst. Calling on Thomas for help had been second nature. He’d not for a moment thought that without a war going on the younger man would hesitate to follow orders or would have forgotten the necessary training. Without him, who knew? Perhaps Lord Grantham would have been another life lost.

He realized he was clenching his jaw and forced it to relax. He concentrated on his own breathing, in and out, two stitches per breath. Medical training or not, Miss Baxter had gotten there in time and done what needed doing. Once stitched up, the only worry would be the possibility of infection, and he told himself that wasn’t likely. Not here. Not in Downton Abbey. Here there was no trench mud to work its way into the wounds, no sweat to wash contaminates into them. He didn’t need to worry about gangrene taking hold, not with such able care takers as resided in the Abby’s walls. And even if, for some reason, Thomas’s own bed should become unusable, there was no shortage here. There would be no need to kick someone out in order to keep the injured man from lying out under a canvas tent, with insufficient shelter from the elements and pests. 

It wasn’t the war. 

And he tried not to think about the war, although he failed there. He tried not to think about that lieutenant that Thomas had liked so much. He didn’t think there had been anything in it, really, at least not from the other side, but looking back on it he should have known that sending the young soldier away would break Thomas’s heart. He should have expected a fight. And of course, he hadn’t gone, not the way he was supposed to. In the end the doctor wondered, if he’d been able to act differently, if he’d had the luxury of letting the lieutenant stay or reason things out with Thomas rather than simply exerting his authority as an army Major who couldn’t, under any circumstances, let his underlings question him and his judgment, if things would somehow be different now. If the lieutenant would have lived, if he’d have kept contact. If that touch stone would have meant he wasn’t sitting here with his needle. 

It didn’t really matter, though, did it? It didn’t matter because he hadn’t had that luxury. Instead he’d had more injured than he had beds, had not enough medicine at any given time, had notices flooding in from his superiors to expect more and make room for them. He’d had nurses and orderlies with family who, had word gotten around that he’d made allowances for Thomas and Lady Sybil, would have press ganged him into filling every bed with their injured loved ones until they lost more men to infection and pneumonia than they saved.

He had tried, in his way, to make up for it, promoting Thomas to acting sergeant without even a pretense of a fight when Lady Grantham asked, but it was a feeble effort at best. 

The war had been too big for him to defeat.

He was about three quarters of the way through when he noticed something small and dark along the edge of the wound. The fear of infection flared brightly in his mind and was ruthlessly squelched. It was too soon for anything to have set in, he told himself. The cut simply wanted a bit of cleaning, that was all. Probing gently at the little black line revealed it to be a thread from the bandage, stuck in the congealing blood and easily lifted out. He pressed on, repeating his assurances to himself and adding the reminder that Thomas had survived a light infection the summer before, so it would take something quite serious to kill him now. He firmly ignored the fact that in the younger man’s current, weakened state, even an abscessing side would be difficult to recover from. It was still safe. There was no one to administer tainted placebos and false promises, not here. Here there was, once again, Miss Baxter, steadily becoming the greatest, reassuring light in the darkness. The woman who had brought Thomas to him when fear would have kept him away, now matter how clearly ill he was. 

The fact that she’d had to bring him, that fear had that great a hold, left Doctor Clarkson with that same, inevitable despairing feeling. Yes, he’d been able to treat the infection, but he hadn’t been able to get anywhere near the source of the problem, had he? He could offer as many pretty words of advice as he liked, but it wouldn’t cleanse the infection of an intolerant society. Perhaps if he’d been less aware of Miss Baxter’s presence, or more confident in her caring, he could have done more. Perhaps if he’d assured Thomas more thoroughly that he, himself, didn’t care about such things, that he wanted the younger man to be whole and healthy despite it all, that would have fixed something. But he’d been wary of giving wrong impressions or offending delicate sensibilities. 

The world was too big for him to defeat.

With a sense of relief he stitched the last stitch, tied off the thread and cut it, and re-bandaged Thomas’s wrists. Mechanically he gathered his tools, washed them in the basin of water Mrs. Hughes had thoughtfully provided, and tucked them away in his bag where they belonged. There was nothing to keep him there. And yet he stood, for several minutes, simply watching Thomas lie there, listening to him breathe. Finally he reached out, smoothed backed a few strands of hair that had been mussed in all of the fuss and which he was quite certain Thomas would have hated if he were awake, then turned to leave. He wasn’t quite certain where he was going. Downstairs, first, to let Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes know that all should be well. Then? The hospital was the obvious answer. There would be other patients, other fights to win or lose. There was paperwork for the merger that, despite his surrender, he was still uneasy about. The afternoon had not left his mind any more comfortable with the thought that, despite promises, he might one day not be able to personally watch over the people he cared about, but rather have to send them to York, to someone he’d never met. He didn’t want to face that, not yet. He could go to the pub, but he wasn’t hungry. A year ago he might have called on Mrs. Crawley, invited her to tea or some such, divided his burden with her, but he wasn’t yet comfortable taking that liberty with Lady Merton. The wedding had not ended the friendship, but it had changed it, as he knew it must. 

The last option was to go home to his empty house, maybe make himself some tea, and try to read or fill the time some other way that didn’t leave space for brooding. He rejected that option out of hand. 

Loneliness was too big for him to defeat.


	12. Kettle

The snow had been unexpected. Joseph watched the small white flakes racing through the air and was rather glad that he’d been safely at home grading papers when it started. Of course, at first he’d thought he was imagining the odd white flake drifting through the air, but there was no imagining now. It was snowing quite in earnest and showed every sign of continuing to do so. He built up the fire for warmth and paused after every finished paper to look out the window and see how much had accumulated.

He had to admit, it was beautiful as long as you didn’t have to go out in it. He was certain that by morning the entire landscape would look like it one of Mrs. Patmore’s more ambitious cakes, or Daisy’s. Once or twice he caught himself yawning, lulled by the muffled silence of the snow.

In fact, he was almost dozing in his chair, nodding off over a paper, when the knocking came. He started a little, at first unable to place the noise, then stood and hastily made his way to the door wondering who on earth could be calling in this weather. “Hello?” he asked as he opened the door, only to find himself confronted with something that didn’t seem to be a human being. Instead it looked very much like an animate winter coat and woman’s hat. The coat was wearing gloves, holding three shopping bags, and was joined to the hat at the collar by a scarf. 

“Oh thank goodness you’re in!” the coat sighed. “And I got the proper cottage!”

“Miss Baxter?” Joseph blinked, bending down a bit. “Is that you under there?”

The hat tilted up just enough for him to make out the large, brown eyes of Lady Grantham’s maid. “Yes, it is,” she replied with rueful good humor. “I don’t suppose I could come in, could I?”

“Of course!” There was no question, really. Joseph stepped out of the doorway, waiting just long enough to make sure she’d cleared before shutting it again to preserve warmth and keep out the snow. “Can I help you with your things? Take your coat and hat?”

“Thank you.” Between the two of them the shopping bags were tucked in a corner, the hat, coat, and scarf spread out near the fire to dry, and the complete form of Miss Baxter, dressed in her winter warmest was revealed.

“What on earth are you doing out in this weather?” Joseph finally asked the question that had been rattling around his brain since she appeared.

“I was just doing a bit of shopping in town,” she explained, spreading her gloves out next to the rest of the drying clothes. “It wasn’t bad at first, so I thought I had time. But then I was delayed at the hat shop and the bakery was closed and by the time I was ready to go home…well.” She smiled and shrugged. “It was like this.” She looked out the window, her profile lit by a combination of the warm fire light and the cooler light reflected from the falling snow. “I’ll have to go back out eventually, of course. Her Ladyship will be waiting for me. But when I reached the cottages I thought I might as well see if you were in and maybe try to wait it out, if I can.”

“Here’s hoping it lets up soon.” Realizing that could sound wrong, Joseph quickly added, “Not that I mind your being here, of course,” with a lopsided smile. “Only that we don’t want you in trouble with her Ladyship.” Still feeling that he somehow had his foot in his mouth and quite aware of his duties as a host he asked, “Would you like me to put on some tea?”

Even without the fire, he thought, her smile would keep him warm. “That would be lovely, thank you.”


End file.
